works of Miss Landon. She eagerly devours their contents, imbuing her soul with the rich fancies and feelings of a spirit kindred to her own. During the following winter he teaches school at West River, visiting weekly at The Grove. She continues her correspendence with him in the form of a diary. The following passage is penned immediately after "three weeks of visiting and company:" 66 They are gone, and I return to my books and my blessed solitude. What a mother is a diary! Whether you are disposed to mirth or to melancholy, she always presents the same serene and smiling aspect; and when you sit down to commune with her, the ebullitions of passion cease, and rosy thoughts come dropping in on all sides; and so pleasant is her company, that you are soon in humor with yourself and the whole world. "To visit or not to visit-that is the question. Who can think calmly and profitably amidst the intoxicating whirl of society? One might as well try to stand still amidst the vibrations of an earthquake. It is well to have a portion of each day for sober reflection, if not for reading and study. I cannot live without it. In the gay revel of my spirits among light-hearted friends, I always lose much, which I can regain only in solitary meditation, and communion with God." CHAPTER V. SUN AND SHOWER. "My heart is like the sleeping lake, IN February, 1841, our diarist makes a trip to Le Roy. Passing through Lima, she visits the Seminary where she has spent some of her happiest days. Her account is very touching, and reveals the strength of her local and personal attachments, as well as her ardent love of literature and science: 66 'The old edifice never presented a more imposing appearance. The campus is crowded with trees; but I looked in vain for the dear old cherry in the corner, around which cluster so many delightful associations. It had fallen beneath the axe. Out upon such improvements! May the stump sprout again, and flourish a thousand years! I cast a "I called at Number Thirty-four. glance around the room, but could recognize no familiar relic—no memorial of the former occupantsno trace of those dear companions who were wont to assemble there in other days-nothing to indicate that it was ever noticed by the busy and joyous crowd that filled those venerable halls. A tumultuous tide of emotions rushed upon my soul. Ah, the dear delusive joys and hopes of youth! Where are the loved and cherished forms that once gladdened those vocal walls? Some are enacting similar scenes in other institutions; some are rejoicing in the light of their distant homes; 'And some are severed by the wave, "I went to the window. There was the same quiet village-the same memorable house of prayer -the same far-spreading landscape, with its blue hills skirting the horizon; but, ah me! there came no voice of departed friends-no whisper of loving hearts-no hope of reunion on this side the darksome grave! I sat me down, and wept. "Then I visited Charlotte's room, forsaken of its elder family, and occupied by stranger forms. Several of the former associates collected to spend the evening with me in that blessed retreat. There were Jane and Julia, Dolly and Dianthia. But how often did I turn involuntarily to the deserted corner, to look for my dear Charlotte! Alas! her seat was vacant, and her voice unheard. And what rendered it the more melancholy, was the sad uncertainty-the great improbability, indeed-that we should all ever meet again. 'I called the next morning at Caroline's room. There were the books, the curtains, and other mementos of the former occupant; but the sweet face, alas! was lacking. O Caroline! I would have given gold for a single glance! I returned to cousin M.'s room, and gave vent to my tears." As she swept over the silvery snow toward Avon, and "the dear old edifice" receded from her view, pleasant and painful memories again came crowding upon her soul, and she extemporized the following lines: "How oft doth memory recall The scenes of that beloved hall! The cherished friends, so fond and true! "Ere we shall gather, soul to soul, Incidents in the life of an invalid are "few and far between." Adaline's health now waxes worse and worse. Cold after cold prostrates her. Hemorrhage after hemorrhage confines her, for weeks together, to her room. Few visits abroad, little company at home, she lives principally in her own thoughts, and the loving hearts of the household. She seldom writes a letter; and, with the exception of the registry of physical prostrations and consequent mental depressions, her diary is made up, almost entirely, of fragmentary reflections-beautiful, indeed-often highly poetical-but affording no adequate data for a memoir; and having no other source of information, we pass silently over a large space in her history, picking up but here and there a thought or an incident that may throw some feeble glimmerings upon our pathway. Under date of "July 4, 1841," we find this significant entry: Sick and sad. Been expectorating blood all day. What will the end be? My books-O my books and my herbarium!" Mournful as brief, and natural as mournful. But is it not remarkable, that amidst frequent prostrations and constant debility, she did not exhibit more of mental depression? The young tree is not broken by the blast, but only bends before it, and soon erects itself again in the gentle beams and breath of heaven. The very next paragraph presents a perfect contrast: "To-day I commence a new chapter in the annals of my pilgrimage. From this Pizgah I will review my way thus far through the wilderness, and look forward to my milk-and-honey-flowing Canaan." Even when confined to her room, she managed generally to maintain a joyous flow of feeling; pursued, with only occasional intermissions, her literary avocations; and sometimes even turned her sickness into profit. On one of these occasions, we |